The Foolhardy Geographer.

The howling desert miles around, The tinkling brook the only sound— Wearied with all his toils and feats, The traveller dines on potted meats; On potted meats and princely wines, Not wisely but too well he dines. The brindled Tiger loud may roar, High may the hovering Vulture soar, Alas! regardless of them all, Soon shall the empurpled glutton sprawl— Soon, in the desert’s hushed repose, Shall trumpet tidings through his nose! Alack, unwise! that nasal song Shall be the Ounce’s dinner-gong! A blemish in the cut appears; Alas! it cost both blood and tears. The glancing graver swerved aside, Fast flowed the artist’s vital tide! And now the apolegetic bard Demands indulgence for his pard!

The Angler & the Clown.

The echoing bridge you here may see, The pouring lynn, the waving tree, The eager angler fresh from town— Above, the contumelious clown. ‘The angler plies his line and rod, The clodpole stands with many a nod,— With many a nod and many a grin, He sees him cast his engine in. “What have you caught?” the peasant cries. “Nothing as yet,” the Fool replies.